


Caught Your Eye

by akasakasan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Child Abuse, M/M, Neglect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:04:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akasakasan/pseuds/akasakasan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had watched the new kid throw away his lunch every day for the past week. Certain no one is watching he picks it up but you can't slip anything past Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John looked around but everyone was heading to the door, chatting away and ignoring the innocuous figure slowly shuffling towards the bin. The lunch bell had sounded and a mass evacuation was in order, everyone grabbing their lunches and hurriedly escaping the confines of the classroom walls. John had watched the new kid throw away his lunch every day for the past week, trying to ignore the angry rumbling of his stomach as he watched perfectly good, uneaten food being thrown away before his eyes.

This was the last option because if he was caught nothing would wipe the shame away. If John wasn’t so hungry he would have been content continuing to deny his knowledge that in a rubbish bin only a few short feet away was uneaten food for the taking. But there had only been enough food in the house this morning to make Harry a measly lunch and the lone note in his wallet would only be enough to buy Harry some dinner with maybe a little left over for her breakfast the next day. With the prospect of facing another two days of hunger pains looming, John shot one final look over his shoulder and reached into the bin, snatching up the sandwich bag and apple and hiding them in the pockets of his baggy jumper. As it was, he didn’t notice curious dark eyes assessing him from the doorway, hidden beneath a shock of curly black hair, before their owner quickly walked away.

The next day found John dozing in class, trying to ignore the sharp cramps coming from his neglected stomach. When the lunch bell rang he slowly stood, ignoring the wave of dizziness that threatened to send him falling face first onto the dirty classroom floor. The classroom quickly emptied and John walked over to the bin. One more day, he promised himself. He couldn’t keep rummaging through the school bins without someone catching on. He had dealt with hunger pains before, although the situation at home had never been quite this bad before. John had just grown lazy, spoilt by free nice food at such a near proximity to himself. Dad would be home tonight and would perhaps be feeling generous enough to give him a little more money to make it through the week. Once his father had been the one to bring home groceries, to make sure that his children were eating and going to sleep on time. But that was a long time ago.

The new boy was obviously rich, his fancy clothes and the quality of his lunches easily giving him away. John nibbled at a tuna, caper and olive sandwich, enjoying the soft texture of the wholegrain bread. He wondered if the lunch he was eating was prepared by an actual cook and couldn’t help but snort. What kind of teenage boy threw away such nice lunches that were obviously carefully prepared for him? John wondered what the new boy was like, whether he was nice. He hadn’t said a word since he had arrived, keeping his head down in class while his fingers tapped out a restless rhythm on the narrow desks. His disdain had instantly turned him into an anathema with the rest of the class but it was obvious the boy didn’t care. He seemed bored by them all, as though he had judged them all on the first day of school and found everyone wanting. For some reason that was a disappointing thought.

John polished the last few crumbs of sandwich off and opened the sealed bag full of biscuits. He was munching his way through a chocolate chip one that was making John see God with every bite when he saw the note tucked away between two biscuits. Pulling it out and unfolding it, he saw neat cursive script. The words, “after school, behind the cafeteria” were covered in chocolate smudges and biscuit crumbs, but the handwriting was still legible and John felt his chest tighten. The boy knew what he was doing. John had been caught. The only thing to do now was to wait out the rest of the day and then approach him, to beg the boy not to give his secret away. He would promise never to steal the food again, make up some story about his home life that should ward off all suspicion. The boy would fall for it; fall for the boring ordinary image that John had worked so hard to perfect. And then everything would go back to the way it was.


	2. Chapter 2

John fidgeted through the next three classes, staring up at the clock every couple of minutes as time slowly ticked on by. When class finally finished he quickly grabbed his books and was the first out the door, pushing past students as he made his way to the deserted courtyard behind the grey cafeteria building. A lone figure perched on the lone picnic table, thin body wrapped in a black coat. John noticed his hands were shaking and pulled himself together, making his way towards the other boy. The boy turned before he could approach, leaping off the table with a flourish. A cigarette burned in his hand, a narrow trail of smoke curling its way into the air like the string on a balloon. He threw it onto the ground before stepping it on it with one heavy black boot.

He was tall, taller than John although that wasn’t really much of an achievement, and incredibly thin. His hair jutted out in an unruly mop of black curls, which fell onto his face as he looked John over, head tilted curiously as his assessing eyes quickly scanned up and down John’s body. John felt like every flaw of his was suddenly out in the open and he couldn’t help but be keenly aware of his shabby jeans, the hole in his scuffed trainers and the frayed knit jumper his aunty had given his several Christmas’ ago. It made John incredibly nervous.

“You got my note then,” the boy stated imperiously. 

It was as though he had no doubt that John would pick his food out of the rubbish, read it and show up. John scowled. The boy’s arrogance was setting him on edge. He just wanted to tell a couple of lies, and get the hell out of here. 

“Look, about the food… It’s not what you think…” John began. 

The boy interrupted him with an imperious sniff. “It’s exactly what I think. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

John sputtered. “What do you mean; it’s exactly what you think? Who are you, anyway? And why did you write me that note then, if you don’t want to talk about it?” 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” the boy said with a long-suffering sigh. “And it’s obvious that you haven’t eaten properly in a long time, except for when you took my lunch out of the bin yesterday. Your mother has been dead for the last two years given by the state of your clothing and your father is either an alcoholic or a drug addict. Either way, he cannot keep a steady job and you’re left to look after your little sister all by yourself.” Sherlock took a deep breath, exhilarated but wary. “Have I missed anything?”

John stared at him in astonishment. All those secrets that he had been so meticulously hiding for so long, all the shame and anger he had felt at having to look after his sister while his father fell apart, it all faded into the background. This boy, Sherlock, had taken one glance at him and discovered every secret he had, every lie he had ever told. It was… “Amazing. Absolutely _brilliant_.”

That made Sherlock really look at him, green eyes searching his face in such an intense manner that John could feel himself blushing.

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock replied.

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John stared at Sherlock before bursting out in helpless laughter, the other boy following his example a few seconds later.

“So what did you want to talk to me about, if not for all that ‘obvious’ stuff then?” John asked, once the laughter had died down.

“Are you familiar with any of your father’s friends?” Sherlock asked, all trace of laughter gone from his face. 

John shook his head. “I’d recognise a couple of his close friends if I saw them on the street but I don’t think I’ve ever said one word to any of them. I used to know his old friends but soon after my mother died he must have drifted away from them because none of them come around anymore. He made a lot of new friends after she died but they never really talked to me.”

“So the name ‘Moriarty’ doesn’t ring a bell?” Sherlock asked.

“Nope.” John shook his head. Out of everything Sherlock could have asked him, this line of questioning was incredibly unexpected.

Sherlock looked a little disappointed. It was weird how that thought was an uncomfortable one for John. He barely knew the other boy and yet Sherlock knew more about him than any of his close friends did. The thought that there wasn’t anything he could hide from Sherlock should have been an uncomfortable one. Instead, it was oddly freeing, almost reassuring. John hoped that he would have the chance to get close to the other boy, to learn what made Sherlock tick and how he could deduce all those things about him with just a cursory glance.

Sherlock grabbed his schoolbag from the picnic table and by unspoken agreement; they started the walk to the school gate. John’s schoolbag swung wildly as he lengthened his stride to catch up with Sherlock’s longer legs.

“I feel like tomorrow’s history revision class is coming a decade late and a couple of pennies short. Do you have any idea what’s going on in that subject?”John asked, hoping to continue the conversation now that Sherlock was done with the questioning.

Sherlock smiled, a fragile careful thing but pleased none the less. “It’s elementary if you think about it. Through the multitude of alliances and the economic fragility of Europe prior to World War I…” Sherlock kept talking but John zoned him out, focusing instead on the excited flush that appeared on Sherlock’s cheeks as he discussed a topic he was obviously knowledgeable and interested in. Watching Sherlock while he talked, John couldn’t help but smile. He hoped that this easy companionship that they had quickly fallen into would continue. Because life finally seemed to be on the way up.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing about life was that as soon as you thought everything was on the track to getting better, the world reminded you about how miserable you really were. That night John came home to find his baby sister desperately shaking their father, hands tightly gripping his coat as she tried to wake him up. He smelt as if he had emptied out a liquor store and drank every bottle on the way home and little flecks of saliva were bubbling out the corner of his mouth. Harry had burst into tears when she saw him, sobbing into his jacket while he spoke to the emergency operator. Together they had rolled their father onto his side, trying to ignore the bluish tint to his clammy skin and his shallow stuttered breathing. Harry opened the door for the paramedics when they knocked and time passed in a blur of movement, of light and sound as they were herded into the ambulance and gently ushered into the narrow waiting room. John tried to imagine what they would do if his father died, of who would look after them when he was gone, and his mind stuttered to a halt. His father, despite his numerous faults, was all they had left.

A kindly doctor came to talk to them, a gentle look in his eyes as he explained the symptoms of alcohol poisoning in a manner that would make sense to two scared children. They were allowed to see him, Harry’s hand tightly clutched in his as they stared down at the still body of their father. A tube trailed out of his throat and his eyes were squeezed shut while machines beeped out a steady rhythm that held the promise that, at least for the moment, everything was all right. John’s heart clenched at the sight, aching at how this had all become horridly familiar. He took in his sister’s slumped figure, her huddled miserable shoulders and reassuringly squeezed her hand. Together they walked up to a tired looking receptionist and hired a cab to take them home.

Harry was surprisingly acquiescent as he tucked the blankets tightly around her small frame and fished Rabbit the toy rabbit out from under her bed. He knew she would be terrified tomorrow, clingy and quiet as she tried to process another misfortune in the tragedy that was their lives. However, for now exhaustion had taken its toll and she curled in on herself, hugging Rabbit tightly to her chest as John gently stroked her hair. When she fell asleep he walked back into their living room, grabbing a trash bag starting to clean up the mess.

As he shoved an almost empty bottle of bourbon into the bulging bag, his mind replayed the events of the day. John had been so scared when he found the note, terrified that everyone would know about his home life. And then he had met Sherlock and it was as all the problems of the past had faded away and left a shining clarity in their place. He’d only just met Sherlock and already John knew that the other boy was brilliant. He had taken one look at John and deduced everything about him, all the secrets that he had kept so firmly buried under layers of projected normality. 

John often felt like the last few years were leading him down a steady path towards developing dystychiphobia. Because before his mother died everything had been perfect and now life was one horrid accident after another. _Before_ they had been a family and his father had been on the way to a promotion. Food was always on the table and Harry was constantly grinning. In the space of two months it had all slowly been taken away from him. Bit by bit until their mother stopped resembling the lively woman she had been and faded away before disappearing altogether. John had stepped up and taken responsibility while his father drunk himself into a stupor every damn night, promising his children that tomorrow would be different. The promises had stopped after a month. 

Taking out the trash, John made himself a cup of tea and settled down to think. He should make Harry go to school tomorrow but she was exhausted and John couldn’t get the image of her shaking their father, desperately begging him to wake up, out of his mind. It would probably be best for her, and for John, for them to stick together tomorrow. They could both sleep in and then see their father in the morning. He would probably be awake by then and already itching for a drink. 

For the first time in what was probably forever, John wasn’t excited at the thought that he would be missing a day of school. He couldn’t wait to see Sherlock again. John regretted not grabbing Sherlock’s number, feeling a desperate eagerness to talk to someone friendly. God, he had only just met Sherlock and he was already acting like some lovesick teenage girl. It was definitely time for him to go to bed.


	4. Chapter 4

John allowed Harry a lie in, allowing her to lounge in bed on a school day while he made pancakes for breakfast. He drew the line at breakfast in bed though, and at a quarter past ten he made her get out of her pyjamas in order to have breakfast. While Harry drowned her pancakes in a river of maple syrup, John stared at her contemplatively over the top of his glass of orange juice. She still looked worn and frayed at the edges but so much better than yesterday, when she had cried into his frayed jacket while John desperately tried to get his dad to wake up. He was right to let her stay home today. The hospital had said that if there weren’t any complications their dad would be released home late that afternoon and she’d definitely be going to school tomorrow, if only to avoid spending time with dad while he was sick. This wasn’t his dad’s first brush with alcohol poisoning and the way he was going it certainly wouldn’t be his last. He was always angry and unpleasant after each incident, itching for some alcohol and shooting Harry and him guilty looks when he thought they weren’t looking.

“Stop staring,” Harry said, flicking her long fringe out of her eyes. She needed a haircut and with the way money was going if he couldn’t convince one of the women who lived near them to do it he would have to do it himself. The neighbouring women had all been friends with his mother and were always eager to do the Watson kids a favour after her death.

John shook his head and pulled himself out of his thoughts. “Sorry, Commander Harriet.”

“Stop calling me that!” she retorted. She had been protesting that nickname for years but John knew that she didn’t hate it as much as she liked to complain about it. John just grinned and crammed an entire pancake in his mouth while Harry giggled at his antics. It was nice to see his baby sister smiling.

“So what do you want to do today, Harry? We’ll start making our way to the hospital at one but we’ve still got a few hours to kill till then.”

The smile faded from Harry’s face in a flash and John’s heart clenched in response.

“He’s going to be okay, Harry. He always is. He’s probably flirting with the nurses as we speak. Now before we go liberate him from a hoard of angry nurses, I think I have the perfect idea,” John said, thinking quickly.

John washed the dishes while a bag of extra-buttery popcorn merrily popped in their microwave. Harry had gone to shower and change and as he poured the popcorn into a deep bowl, she raced down the stairs, hair still damp and dripping onto the collar of her t-shirt. He ruffled it just to watch her squirm and then put in a DVD. Anything Joss Whedon related was a sure-fire way of cheering his sister up but he brought out the big guns, _Serenity_ , on especially bad days. Using the well-honed art of tickling, his catch-as-catch-can approach to bringing her snuggling into his side, he wrapped a blanket around them and huddled her to him as the spaceship Serenity soured into the heavens.

*****

Picking their dad up from the hospital had been an exercise in patience. He had protested weakly every step of the way, batting John’s helping hands away as he tried to help him get into the taxi. Harry was quiet, blue eyes wary but not letting her dad disappear from sight. When they finally got home, Harry stood watching in the doorway as their father crawled miserably into bed, obviously wanting to snuggle up by his side but scared of rejection. John couldn’t remember the last time dad had hugged either of them, let alone allowed Harry or him to cuddle up against him in bed. John shut his dad’s door while Harry quietly disappeared into her bedroom. She would spend the next few hours cuddling her stuffed animals until dinner was ready, at which point she would attach to him like a limpet and refuse to let go.

John wandered into his bedroom. It was still early, school would have only just ended, but the day had taken its toll and John was exhausted. All he wanted to do was go to sleep but he had missed a history revision class today and catching up on all that missed information was going to kill him. History had always been his weakest subject and John thought of Sherlock’s rambling lecture on the class material as he opened his textbooks. Just as he began reading, a stone hit his window and rebounded off the glass with a resounding crack. John wandered over to the windows, just as another stone hit its target. He peered through the dusty glass to see Sherlock picking up another stone and John frantically shook his head. He ran downstairs and opened the front door, quickly shushing Sherlock before he could speak.

“You have to be quiet, my dad’s in bed sick and won’t appreciate being woken up,” John said. “And by the way, who ever told you that throwing rocks at people’s windows was romantic was lying to you.”

“I was throwing them to get your attention,” Sherlock sniffed imperiously, as if even the idea of a romantic thought would never deign to cross his mind.

John just grinned widely and motioned for Sherlock to follow him upstairs to his bedroom. They tiptoed up the stairs and into John’s bedroom; John shutting the door as Sherlock collapsed on his unmade bed.

“And what gave my window away?” John inquired.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I could see pink stickers on the side of a bookcase through the window next to yours, suggesting that its occupant was more likely to be your younger sister. The other window had the curtains drawn but considering that you had missed a day of school and that your window is currently facing the sunlight you would utilise the natural light to study. In addition, I could see the corner of a Muse poster through your window, which is more likely to belong to you rather than your middle-aged father.”

John gaped at Sherlock until the other boy was practically squirming. “Wow, that was absolutely brilliant!”

Sherlock blushed but looked immensely pleased, as though compliments were few and far between. John had a feeling that that might just be the case and vowed to continue showering the other boy with compliments until he became used to the praise.

“You missed class today,” Sherlock stated.

“Yeah my father wasn’t well and I spent the day making sure he was okay.”

“You mean he drank too much and you spent last night in the emergency room before collecting him from hospital today?”

John just shook his head, strangely amused at Sherlock’s bluntness. “Well I can see I’m never going to need to keep secrets from you. What gave it away?”

“The alcohol bottles in various stages of emptiness that can be seen poking out of a rubbish bag in your overfull bin that I noticed while collecting stones. I put that together with what I had already deduced about your father’s addiction and concluded that he had alcohol poisoning. Certainly not my finest deduction.”

“I’m still impressed,” John said, grinning widely.

Sherlock looked flustered, pushing a pale hand through the mess of curls on his head. “Seeing as you missed history class I wrote notes and brought them for you to read before the test.” He pulled a tattered heap of papers out of his school bag. John took them gladly, jealously admiring the neat black script. It was fitting that John wanted to be a doctor because his own handwriting was certainly appropriately appalling.

“Do you want to stay and study with me?” John asked, suddenly feeling shy. “We have to keep our voices down while my dad’s sleeping and I have to grab Harry some dinner soon but we can cover the material together. If you like. You don’t have to.”

Sherlock looked delighted, grabbing his own textbook out of his school bag. “I’d love to,” he said, his lips curved in a small genuine smile. “I’d love to.”


	5. Chapter 5

Studying with Sherlock turned out to be a highly entertaining exercise. Every few sentences they read together Sherlock would interject a fact about something else that occurred during the historical period they were learning about. Most of his facts were crime-related or about different forms of torture and execution but John was still strangely interested by everything Sherlock told him and the sheer volume of knowledge that the other boy possessed. It almost seemed like Sherlock was just showing off but he looked so pleased when John showed interest in what he was saying that he wasn’t sure. 

Sherlock’s notes were ripped out pages full of row after row of tiny black writing that was so small that on occasion John needed Sherlock to decipher for him. History had always been John’s worst subject but Sherlock made studying all the complicated names and dates almost fun and John found himself enjoying spending time with the other boy. Even after a few hours of studying, when they finally closed their books and went to the kitchen to rummage up some food, John still found talking with Sherlock to be surprisingly easy. With everyone else, John had to try to keep the conversation going. He struggled to come up with something to say and then would immediately regret whatever had just come out of his mouth. But Sherlock already knew everything about him. He knew his secrets, knew every embarrassing detail about his life just by looking at John. It was surprisingly easy to talk to someone like that.

The rubbery noodles John boiled for dinner looked incredibly unappetising but it was that or go hungry. John raced upstairs to get Harry, who was lying on her back in bed reading a book. She was growing and consequently always hungry, racing eagerly downstairs and forgetting that she usually acted shy around strangers. Grabbing bowls, he divided the noodles in three and brought them to the kitchen table, where Harry and Sherlock were staring suspiciously at each other. The presence of food distracted Harry, who dug straight in, while Sherlock alternated his glances between her and the food. He picked up a fork and poked a noodle gingerly. John would have been insulted if he hadn’t already witnessed how little Sherlock ate, if he hadn’t survived off Sherlock’s uneaten food for the last few days. John slowly tucked into his own noodles, trying and failing not to think about how this was the last proper food in their house and that he would have to try to get something for Harry to eat tomorrow. With his father ill and indisposed, the prospect was more daunting than ever.

“John never brings friends back home. How did you two meet, anyway?” Harry asked, through a mouthful of noodles.

John blushed but Sherlock smoothly replied. “We share a few classes together and we got to talking and discovered we have a lot of things in common. When I realised he missed school I brought him my notes for the history test tomorrow.”

John smiled gratefully at Sherlock, who stiffly returned the smile. “What year are you in, Harry?”

“Fifth. But I don’t like school. My teacher’s are stupid and don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Harry!” John scolded but Sherlock just grinned at her, looking pleased.

“You’re completely right of course. Teachers rely too heavily on the bare hints of knowledge that they find in their unsatisfactory textbooks and with their limited brain capacity... They just stand in front of students spewing out facts without any actual understanding about what they’re actually saying. And of course, the school just hires idiots anyway with no care about whether they are in any way knowledgeable about their supposed subjects.” 

“But Harry, just because your teacher’s are idiots doesn’t mean you can use that as an excuse to slack off in school. And Sherlock, stop filling my sister’s head with your opinions about the education system. Even if they are mostly true,” John admonished.

Harry had completely forgotten her noodles, instead beaming delightedly at Sherlock. “I like you. John, don’t frighten this one off. I finally like one of your friends.”

Sherlock took a bite of his noodles, looking awkwardly pleased at the compliment. John couldn’t help but smile at his obvious pleasure. 

Harry finished the last of her noodles, sighing in contentment. She stood up and wrapped her arms around John’s waist. “Thanks, John,” she muttered into his chest.

“No problem, Harry. I’ll come to your room at bedtime to tuck you in. School tomorrow.”

She groaned but wandered upstairs without complaint. John finished off his noodles while Sherlock helped himself to half of his bowl before pushing it away, leaving it for John to eagerly finish off. While John washed up Sherlock leaned against the counter, watching him curiously.

“We should get a bit more studying done. I should go home soon anyway,” Sherlock said. 

“Sounds good,” John agreed. He dried his hands and then he followed Sherlock up to his room.


	6. Chapter 6

The impromptu study session prior to their history test worked wonders and for the first time in his life John walked out of a test feeling confident that he had done well. Naturally, Sherlock had finished earlier than anyone else and was now leaning against the wall opposite the classroom waiting for John, one bony knee impatiently bouncing up and down. When he saw John come out he smiled and walked over.

“What took you so long? It was an incredibly simple test, frankly irritatingly easy,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah but I was stuck on Question 11. What was the ‘Treaty of London’ again?” John asked. He had stared at that question for a good ten minutes, certain that Sherlock had talked about the treaty but unable to get at the information hiding away in the back of his mind.

“History is useless information for me. As such, I’ve deleted any of the information I had retained up to the test.”

John stared at him in confusion. “That’s not how the brain works though. You can’t just pick and choose what you want to remember and make yourself forget irrelevant information.”

“Well the average mind certainly cannot do that but I’ve trained myself to delete information at will. Instead of clogging up my brain with all manner of irrelevant facts and forgetting material that will undoubtedly be useful to me, I simply ensure that I delete what I know will not be necessary. This makes useful information easier to access as well.”

John didn’t know what to say to that. If anyone else had said something as preposterous as that to him he would have simply scoffed. But it was Sherlock and John didn’t doubt that he was being serious. 

Together the boys walked to the picnic table where Sherlock had introduced himself. They sat down, enjoying the rare warmth. Sherlock rummaged through his bag before pulling out a squashed sandwich and a muesli bar.   
“Before you start with the unnecessary pride I just want to remind you that if you don’t want it I’m just going to end up throwing it away and wasting food.”

John looked thoughtful. He was truly ashamed to take Sherlock’s lunch, believing that the other boy was just feeling sorry for him. But he also knew Sherlock well enough by now to know that he wasn’t lying. If John didn’t eat it, Sherlock would simply throw his lunch away, just like he had been doing since he arrived at the school. John took the sandwich and grabbed half. Biting into his half and chewing rapidly he then handed the other half to Sherlock.

“You should eat some as well. You know that food helps your brain function,” John said. 

The sandwich was actually delicious- ham, some fancy cheese that John didn’t even recognise, spinach, relish and tomato slices. Seeing as how the only thing he had eaten in over twenty-four hours was some noodles and how their fridge and cupboard was officially bare, John was relishing every bite.

Sherlock shook his head, batting John’s hand aside as he tried to give him the rest of the sandwich.

“I don’t enjoy eating during the day. It slows down my cognitive processing and makes me feel sluggish. Take it home and give it to Harry,” Sherlock suggested.

John felt even more out of his depth with Sherlock than he had before. He had never met anyone like him before and he had a feeling that no one else was like Sherlock. John could feel the radius of his world view expanding, changing him in the process. John should have felt scared. He wasn’t. Instead, he felt more alive than he had since his mother died and all the responsibility had fallen on him. He packed the other half of the sandwich and the muesli bar into his bag for Harry and smiled at Sherlock. John felt happy and that was a scary thought. This type of blind happiness was fantastic but it was always at times like these where everything would suddenly go wrong in his life. John could only hope that this time it would be different.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I've written for 'Catch Your Breath'. I'm really sorry but I can't promise updates will be particularly speedy given the fact that all my assignments for university seem to be due soon. I know where this story is going so I will be updating as soon as possible! Thank you all for the encouragement you've been giving me!

Months flew by and for the first time in his life John had what he considered a best friend. John was friendly with everyone and a lot of the boys in his year considered him to be a good mate. But with Sherlock everything was different. John had never had a friend he could rely on, someone who knew his secrets and he could talk to about anything he wanted. His home life had always been the skeleton in his closet, something so shameful and hidden that he would never willingly bring up. And then Sherlock had looked at him for a few moments and just _known_.

Sometimes the intensity with which Sherlock listened to what he had to say was a little frightening. It seemed as though he was analysing, almost recording, everything that John told him. But that was the way Sherlock was. Sherlock didn’t socialise with anyone else at their school so there was no one for John to talk to, to compare notes. From the whispers and conversations he heard, everyone thought Sherlock was strange and they kept away from him. It was almost as though John was Sherlock’s lifeline into the real world.

It had been raining all day so by the time they made it back to John’s after school they were both soaked and utterly miserable. Sherlock stood dripping on the rug by the front door, hair soaked to his pale face and looking entirely like a rat that had just been pulled out of a lake. John threw his school bag into a corner by the door, slipped out of his wet trainers and then raced upstairs to fetch them both towels. Harry watched with some amusement from her seat at the kitchen table as they shivered while briskly trying to dry off. When they could both walk without dripping all over the floorboards John sent Sherlock to shower while he quickly changed into warm clothes and went downstairs to make tea and swath himself in blankets.

“Fun day?” Harry asked, smug and practically glowing with warmth. In response John walked up behind her and stuck both of his freezing hands down the back of her jumper, just to hear her shrieks as she tried to desperately remove his cold hands before they leeched any more heat from her. 

“Glad to see Sherlock’s lessons in sarcasm and smugness are coming along nicely,” he said, sniffing rather pathetically. He sat beside her at the table while he tried to inhale as much tea as he possibly could. 

Harry just laughed at him before going back to her textbook. From the pictures John knew she was finishing her homework on the solar system, a subject that Sherlock had previously declared was a waste of time and effort due to its abstract and irrelevant nature. This had made John scoff in turn, knowing that Sherlock had been reading up on the gestation period of goats.

John had never been to Sherlock’s house; almost every day after classes had ended they went back to John’s. John would be ashamed of the mess or the stench of liquor that never quite went away but Sherlock already knew and he never acted like it bothered him. They studied together- or rather, Sherlock lectured while John rushed to scribble down notes- they ate dinner or watched films and in a move that surprised everyone, Sherlock and Harry, after sizing each other up, had taken to each other quite nicely. On the rare days that Sherlock didn’t come home with him Harry always sulked, unhappy that her partner in crime was away. John found their friendship rather adorable but he had given Sherlock a firm talking to when he heard them whispering plans for Harry to build a replica of an atomic bomb in place of the usual vinegar and baking soda volcano kids made for their science projects.

After his stint at the hospital dad had pulled himself together and found a job at a construction site. John wasn’t naive enough to think that it would last but there was finally some money for groceries and the prospect of starvation was put aside for another few weeks. John barely even saw his father anymore these days, he would always be at work or at the pub and by the time he stumbled back home John was already asleep in bed. Thinking of family time, as it had been when their mother was still alive and healthy, hurt. Memories of being loved and cared for had become fuzzy and seemed close to disappearing altogether. At least he had Harry. And now Sherlock had barraged into his life, leaving it changed forever.

Having finished his tea John shook himself out of his stupor and went upstairs looking for Sherlock, who had been taking his time showering. Considering how little the other boy ate John wouldn’t be surprised if he had passed out in the bath like some sort of tragic Victorian heroine. Under John’s constant pestering Sherlock was starting to eat more but it was still barely enough to keep someone of Harry’s size functioning, let alone a gangly, still growing teen. 

Reaching the top of the stairs John realised the bathroom door was open. He checked his own room before he heard it. The sound of papers rustling gently and drawers quietly sliding open. John’s stomach clenched so tightly it actually hurt as he crept towards the end of the hall, where the door to their father’s office was wide open. He could see Sherlock’s back as he hurriedly rummaged through the pile of paper’s on dad’s desk, the mess of paper’s that had barely moved since John’s mum had died. Sherlock was muttering intently to himself, opening a small diary that had a list of his dad’s friends and their contact details.

If Sherlock hadn’t been so immersed in his spying he would have probably heard the creak of the floorboards as John reached the open door and stared at his former best friend. The taste of betrayal was almost tangible as he stood at the door in shock, not willing himself to make a sound, barely breathing, because he knew what this meant. Sherlock had lied to him, had spied on them for whatever reason, and John was never going to be able to forgive or forget such an act of sheer deceit. Instead, John loudly cleared his throat, taking an almost savage pleasure out of the way the diary fell from Sherlock’s normally graceful fingers as he spun around, guilt clearly written on his face.

“John listen, I know what you’re going to say but your father has had dealings with Moriarty and I need to find him. There’s a case, John and I need…”

John interrupted him, voice hoarse as though he had been shouting for hours. “Get out of my sight. I want you out of my house. Now.”

All colour fled from Sherlock’s already pale face. Those sharp blue eyes stared at him, unhappiness written in them so clearly. John expected him to argue because that was what Sherlock did best. Instead Sherlock simply swallowed hard and walked out of John’s life. Even as he listened to the front door slam as Sherlock left John stared at the diary lying open on the table. He went to close it when a name popped out at him.

_James Moriarty_

There wasn’t a number or an address beside the name. But Sherlock, as always, had been right all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ducks for cover*
> 
> I feel like I need to apologise for the angst.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I felt bad about leaving the story on such a angsty note so have a short chapter. This will hopefully make ease the pain a little! :D

John spent the next few days simmering with anger. He had never been so angry at anyone before and even Harry was a little wary around him. But as the days went by and Sherlock refused to make an appearance at school, John found the anger turning to disappointment and regret. His one close friend in the world was gone, their entire friendship was a lie. He had trusted Sherlock and that trust had gotten him nothing but pain and hurt.

Without Sherlock whispering clever little facts or loudly correcting the teacher, classes were dull. He spent more time with his rugby mates, who he had lately been neglecting due to his new friendship with Sherlock. He had missed them but it wasn’t the same. There was an emptiness to his life that he had never noticed before and it was slowly eating him up. 

Harry was furious at him. She placed the blame for Sherlock’s absence squarely on John’s shoulders, believing that John had done something to drive away the only person who knew about their situation and still seemed to care about them, to treat them like they were his friends and he wasn’t ashamed. John didn’t have the heart to admit to Harry that Sherlock had just been using them to gain information for a case he was working on. So he put up with her glares and her anger, if only for there to be one less heartbreak in her life.

It was Friday and raining when Sherlock finally returned to school. He caught John’s inquisitive stare as he walked into the classroom and then his shoulders hunched and he quickly collapsed into a spare seat on the opposite side of the room. John stabbed the blank page in front of him with his pen, imagining it was Sherlock’s stupid face, which helped the anger somewhat. Having Sherlock back in his classes helped ease the ache in his chest but it also rekindled the rage that was making it hard to breath.

The minute the bell rang for lunch Sherlock raced out of class, while John watched him retreat with barely disguised irritation. Too bad he knew exactly where Sherlock would be. It was only as he was walking past Sherlock’s desk to leave class did he notice a sealed bag containing a sandwich, some biscuits and muesli bar lying there. As John picked them up he noticed a little note tucked on top of the sandwich. With a serious case of déjà vu, he opened the bag and looked down at the neat writing on the note. “I’m sorry, John. Please let me explain.”

John stared at the words blurring together on the page as anger clouded his vision. Scrunching up the note and throwing it onto the floor, John grabbed the sandwich bag and made his way to the picnic tables behind the cafeteria where they had first spoke. Just as before Sherlock was perched atop one of the tables, inhaling desperately from a cigarette with the eagerness of a parched man glugging down water. This time John threw the sandwich bag on the table next to him, feeling rather satisfied with the way it made Sherlock flinch.

“Are you trying to buy yourself an apology with food? Because let me tell you where you should shove that sandwich and apology of yours. I’m not so pathetic that I’m going to pretend everything is fine simply because you threw me your scraps. I’ve got a bit of dignity left, thanks.”

Sherlock stared at him, blue eyes unhappy as they scanned over his face and posture. “I’m not good with apologies, John. But I meant what the note said. I am sorry that I seem to have hurt you. But you don’t understand what’s at stake.”

John bristled at the condescending nature of such an apology. “I understand perfectly. You decided to have your fun with me until you got bored of it and wanted to do your own snooping. Or, let me guess, you wanted to see how the other half lives?”

“That’s not true. I just needed to solve the case though. I can see the connection, I just need to prove that Moriarty is responsible. Your father knows him, may even be a part of his organisation, and I need to find him.” The passion in Sherlock’s voice was slightly terrifying. John could tell that the case was all that was important to him. 

“God you had no friends at your old school, did you?” John asked, bitterness clear in his voice.

“No I didn’t. I’ve don’t have friends,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

Well that settled it. John didn’t even bother responding, he just turned and started walking away, hands clenched into fists by his side.

“I’ve only got one,” Sherlock whispered and John stopped in his tracks. His heart was beating so loudly he could practically hear it. His back still to Sherlock John stopped, considering.

“I need some time, Sherlock. But gaining my friendship and using me so you could snoop through my father’s things... that was wrong of you. And I’m not sure if I’m ready to forgive you so easily.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock called out again. This time John kept walking.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was utterly shameless. He had approached John three times in the past week, clingy and apologising desperately for what he had done, begging John for forgiveness. But if John was an expert in anything it was in detecting false apology’s. He could see that Sherlock was truly sorry but it was for all the wrong reasons. He just felt bad that he had been caught, for losing his only friend. The actual act of snooping through John’s father’s things was merely part of the grand design that was constantly being orchestrated in Sherlock’s mind. In his head, he was a consulting detective, all grand and brimming with wisdom and he would do whatever was necessary in order to solve a case. Sherlock was used to living without consequences and when finally faced with one he believed he could stubbornly bludgeon it out of the way. Unfortunately for Sherlock, people simply didn’t work that way.

John had yelled at Sherlock the last time he came to apologise, immediately feeling terrible as Sherlock slunk off, shoulders hunched and miserable. A couple of days had passed since then and Sherlock hadn’t been coming to classes. John could still picture the wounded look the other boy had given him and his chest clenched at the memory. Perhaps he was being too harsh on Sherlock? John told his subconscious to shut up and went back to doodling on his chemistry notes until the bell rang, indicating the blessed end of classes for the day. John slowly packed his books into his bag, avoiding the frantic rush to the door as students fled the confines of the classroom in their dash for freedom. The classroom emptied within minutes; even Mr. Miller, their frazzled chemistry teacher, was eager to go home and avoid having to deal with students for another day. 

John took his time. Then, checking that nobody was around he shuffled carefully over towards the rubbish bin that was always overflowing towards the end of the day. Within a minute he found a half bag of crisps and several muesli bars, parents insisting on giving them to their kids even though it was clear that they would only be thrown away. He put them into his school bag, thinking that he could pack Harry some for lunch tomorrow. John had just pulled out a squashed ham and cheese sandwich, whole and still perfectly wrapped, when he had the nasty prickling sensation that someone was watching him. Quickly straightening up, the sound of somebody softly clearing their throat came from the back of the room. It was suddenly hard to breath, the air in the room feeling stilted as John turned around.

Standing at the back of the classroom was a tall thin man in an immaculate looking suit. He was leaning on the handle of a black umbrella, pale eyes assessing John as though he was a piece of dirt on the bottom of his expensive glossy shoes. How had John not noticed him? He had been so very careful.

“You are not what I was expecting,” the man said, his voice deep and scornful. “I would shake your hand but I’ve just watched you digging through a rubbish bin so I’d rather not.”  
Staring at him, John had never felt so low. He dropped the sandwich that he had been clutching in his hands and the other man watched it fall with an expression of disgust.  
“Who are you?” John asked, his voice sounding small and utterly pathetic even to his own ears. It made the man smile.

“My name is Mycroft. And it seems we have a mutual acquaintance. I’ve just started a promising career in the government so the last thing I needed when I came back home to visit my family was to find my baby brother sulking because he had somehow made a friend that he then managed to successfully drive away. I don’t care what happened between you two but you will stop acting like a child and resume your friendship with Sherlock this instance.”

John stared at him, absolutely speechless. Of all the things that he had expected, Sherlock’s older brother appearing from the shadows and telling him that he must resume his friendship with Sherlock wasn’t one of them. John was utterly bewildered by this turn of events.

“We’ve just had a fight. Did Sherlock send you here to talk to me?”

Mycroft ignored him. “How much money would it take to convince you to maintain the friendship with Sherlock? Don’t act noble, John. I know Harriet would appreciate some nice food for a change, something decent and healthy while she’s growing.”

John paled. This stranger knew about Harry and Sherlock had promised not to tell anyone about their home life. If Sherlock, while angry at him, had told his brother John’s secrets then John didn’t know what he would do. It would be devastating.

“How do you know about Harry?” 

“I know everything about you and your family. The question is, does the government know about your living conditions?” Mycroft asked, voice silky smooth. 

A sharp pain jolted through John’s chest. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream at the injustice that had become his life. Mainly, he just wanted to fall on his knees before Mycroft and beg.

“I don’t need your money or your threats. I was going to forgive Sherlock eventually, you didn’t have to resort to threats.”

“I’m not threatening you. My brother is… difficult, as you well know. I’ve learnt over the years that bribery and threats usually work in convincing the right people to make Sherlock’s life a little easier. I’m just giving you a little incentive to put up with him.”

“That’s horrible! I don’t need money or you threatening me to _put up with_ Sherlock. I happen to like him.” 

Mycroft raised one thin eyebrow, staring at John in silence. John shifted nervously.

“You will continue your relationship with my brother. Or I will make sure the appropriate authorities come and take you and Harry away.”

John stared at Mycroft, unable to form words, as the man made to leave. Just before he reached the door of the classroom he turned to face John again. 

“Just letting you know, if you hurt Sherlock again I will know about it.”

With that he was gone and John was left standing alone in the empty classroom, pale and shaky with fear.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a few people were unhappy with the last chapter so I have this has fixed everything some what. Next chapter we finally get to the case!

John came home that night in a panic. Mycroft’s conversation had stirred something primal within him, something he had never felt before. He was filled with a terror that was chilling in its intensity but there was also rage stirring within his soul. John had put up with an awful lot of crap during his life. He could handle anything the world threw at him. But Mycroft had done the unthinkable. He hadn’t threatened John, he’d threatened Harry and that was a crime that John couldn’t take lightly. 

Since their mother had died John had stepped up. He’d taken the place of Harry’s mother and her father and he had managed it well. John had spent the early days researching nutrition on the internet, writing down recipes for healthy meals that he could cook for her. When money became tight he had skipped his own meals to ensure that he was well fed. John had even started hunting for a part-time job to put some more food on the table. He was always there for her, helping with homework and listening to her chattering on about her day. Harry was growing up happy and healthy with him protecting her, acting as her guardian angel. Mycroft had come along and shattered their fragile equilibrium and he was going to pay dearly.

Sherlock had never mentioned having a brother. In fact, Sherlock rarely talked about his home life with John. It was a bit unfair that he knew so much about John’s personal circumstances, whereas John knew so little about him. But then again, hadn’t Sherlock just been using him, pumping him for information? It was all so confusing and John was getting tired of it all. Harry could not be separated from him. She was his baby sister and he was the one who had taken care of her. With the threat of her being taken away hanging over his head the panic cleared and a plan of action suddenly came to him as clear as day. He would do anything protect Harry. With that thought he ran upstairs and booted up his computer. It didn’t take long to find Sherlock’s address, especially with the clues that Sherlock had inadvertently given him. He would confront Sherlock and put a stop to this.

The night was cold, with a bitter breeze whipping the dry leaves into a frenzy beneath his feet. John pulled his thin jumper tighter around his bony shoulders, trying to keep warm. He spent the walk contemplating what he would say to Sherlock but the words weren’t coming to him. He just wanted Sherlock to explain what the hell was going on, to figure out whether he would ever trust the other boy again. 

John had to double-check the address he had written down because the house he arrived at was beyond anything he had imagined. It was easily the biggest house in the block, overshadowing its neighbours by several stories. White Corinthian pillars guarded the entrance like a line of soldiers, burdened with the weight of the building that they supported. A row of trees led to the front door, each perfectly trimmed until they were identical copies of the others. There was a narrow driveway between the trees, circling a giant fountain that appeared to be made of marble. The driveway led up to a massive wrought iron gate with a buzzer, which John nervously pressed. 

“Hello?” a thin female voice immediately answered.

“Um hi, I’m here to see Sherlock,’ John answered, his voice sounding pathetically childlike. The entire place felt intimidating, as though he was a stranger who wasn’t welcome. It was a sobering feeling and it made him all too aware of his own social status.

“Who, pray tell, is this?” 

“Tell him it’s John. John Watson,” he said, feeling utterly stupid.

It was almost a minute later that the gate opened with a loud creak and John walked into what felt like another world. He hadn’t even walked the distance of the driveway when the front door flew open and Sherlock bounded out. He looked paler than usual and infinitely more tired, as though the idea of sleep hadn’t even occurred to him. His hair was a wild mess and he pulled his fingers through it nervously as he walked up to John.

“You came to visit me,” Sherlock stated, surprising uncertainty in his voice. His eyes rapidly scanned John’s body, as though in his impatience to hear what John wanted to say he was trying to deduce it for himself. John wasn’t going to give him the pleasure.

“Can we go inside and talk? It’s bloody freezing out here.”

Sherlock nodded, looking rather dismayed at the prospect. John couldn’t imagine why. If his family had owned a mansion such as this he would have delighted at any chance to show it off. The house was toasty warm, feeling slowly returning to John’s fingers as he followed Sherlock down a narrow corridor into what appeared to a library. Bookshelves lined the walls and countless books leaned against each other in a sort of ordered chaos. There were two couches standing near the heating ducts and John collapsed into the nearest one with a grateful groan. Sherlock sat down gingerly, as though afraid of what this conversation would bring.

It was funny how seeing Sherlock immediately calmed some of the anger that had been raging under John’s skin. Staring at the way Sherlock nervously worried his lower lip between his teeth, John started off the conversation on a much calmer note then he had intended.

“So I had a lovely conversation with a member of your family today,” John said.

Sherlock paled. “I told him not to get involved. That snivelling, traitorous, nosy, fat bastard,” Sherlock spat, suddenly furious. He leapt up from his chair and started to pace angrily. “Goes away for months at a time and sticks his nose where it doesn’t belong when he comes back home. As though any one wants him back. John I didn’t tell him anything about you, I promise. He saw me and deduced and he obviously went to confront you. What did he want?”

“He wanted us to be friends again,” John whispered. “He said if I stop being friends with you he would tell the authorities and they would take Harry and I away from dad. Promise me you didn’t tell him anything.”

Sherlock flared with indignation. “Of course I promise. He’s on his way to knowing everything and seeing everything that goes on in this country so you can only guess how he found out. Oh I’m going to have so much fun with him. I’ll put sugar in every drink and force the cook to slather his food in butter. I’ll dip his umbrella in molasses and slip laxatives into his drinks. I’ll make his hair fall out and…”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted. “While your revenge fantasies are all good and well, and I’m even considering helping you out with several of them, we need to talk about you snooping through my dad’s things.”

Sherlock abruptly fell into his seat like a marionette with its strings cut. His lips were squeezed into a thin line of misery. “I’ve already apologised for that. I don’t know what else you want.”

“I know you have and I’m not looking for another apology. I just need to know if your stupid case more important than our friendship?” John asked.

“Of course not!” Sherlock immediately replied, as though the very idea insulted him. “The truth is that I’ve never had real friends before. Mycroft had always taught me that it was an impossibility, an abomination that would cloud all reason and a sound method for getting hurt. So I avoided the possibility of friendship for years. But then I met you and everything changed. In such a short period of time you changed me. You made me better then I was.”

“I need you to swear that you’re never going to go behind my back again. And that you’ll keep your brother off my back,” John said.

“I swear to you, John.”

Sherlock smiled hesitantly and John smiled back. The rage that had been teeming under his skin vanished. He couldn’t stay made at Sherlock. Whether or not that was a mistake had yet to be seen.

“Have you had any luck with the case yet?” John asked. He genuinely was curious. He could picture Sherlock’s keen mind being applied to solving cases and he knew that Sherlock would be extraordinary at it.

“Let me tell you about it, John. We can solve it together, I know we can,” Sherlock’s voice had reached fever pitch. Twin spots of colour decorated his cheeks and his eyes glinted in the light, a mad gleam to them. His intensity was almost frightening. And yet, after his mum died nothing ever happened to John. Every day was filled with thoughts on survival, on how to keep on going when his father had obviously fallen apart. But John wasn’t the grown-up in the family. He had missed out on being a teenager because he had been chocked with responsibilities. But John was tired of being the responsible one.

“Okay. I’ll help you solve the case.”


End file.
